THE WANDERERS.
I WAS utterly worn out when I reached Dame Giles's little hostel. She
had never missed me it seemed, and I slipped quietly into mine own
room. I felt that I had not one atom of endurance left, and throwing
myself on the bed, I fell, I suppose, into a deep sleep, from which I
did not wake till noon.
Then I arose, bathed my face, and put myself into decent trim. As I
was mending my tattered gown, Dame Giles entered the room. I made her
sit down by me, and told her where I had been. She shook her head
disapprovingly.
"'Twas a great risk, and yet I can not blame you," said she; "but how
did you bruise your face so sadly?"
I told her my adventure with the child.
"'Twas a great deal to do for a child no ways akin to you," said she;
"but I dare to say you never thought of that."
"No, indeed!" I answered. "Since mine own babe was given me, I feel
that all children are akin to me, for her sweet sake. But now that I am
decent once more, I will finish your ruffle while I have time, since
one can not tell from one hour to another what will happen, or would
you rather I made some more cakes, that you may be sure you understand
the confection?"
For I had learned in Holland to make certain light sweet-cakes, which,
boiled in hot lard, were both toothsome and wholesome, and I had been
practicing my skill for the benefit of the good woman, my hostess.
Dame Giles looked at me in wonder, and indeed I could not but wonder at
myself. I seemed somehow so strangely held up above my sorrow and care.
The bewilderment of my senses was all gone—I could think calmly as ever
in my life, and I was conscious of a kind of calmness and serenity—of
a trust in my Heavenly Father, and a confidence in His mercy such as I
had never felt before, and which came not from myself, I am sure. I was
able, while giving due attention to what I was about, to look beyond
all earthly things, and by faith to behold that shore where are no more
griefs, neither sorrow nor crying, because the former things are passed
away. I knew that I had seen my husband probably for the last time on
earth, unless I were allowed one last embrace when he was led forth to
the stake or the gallows, but I felt that I could even give him up if
called to do so, knowing that our parting would be but for a time. It
is, I believe, only in circumstances of great trial that this state of
mind comes to pass. It is the Lamb's mystical gift to His own—the white
stone wherein is a name written which no one knows but he who receives
it.
That night, after dark, John Symonds came to conduct me to his
mistress's presence. I learned, during the walk, that he had followed
his lady's fortunes in her second marriage, and that Mistress Curtis
was still my lady's manager and housekeeper, though growing old. My
mistress received me with more than her old kindness. She was lovely
as ever, and even more so, for her face had gained in expression and
in thought. She presented me to her husband, a fine-looking, sober
gentleman he was no doubt, and as good as the day was long. But how she
could ever take him into the Duke's place—however, that was no business
of mine. I am sure he was ever most kind to me, and I should be an
ingrate not to own what I owe to him.
"Mistress Corbet is come in good time, my love, since you needed a
waiting gentlewoman," said he. "You will be better pleased with her
than with a stranger, specially in these troublous times when one knows
not whom to trust."
"But the poor thing is in great trouble about her husband, Mr. Batie,"
said my mistress. "Can we do nothing for her?"
"We will consider of that."
So saying, Mr. Batie would have me sit down and tell him the whole
story. He shook his head when I had finished.
"'Tis a sad case, and I know not what to do," said he. "I know Sir John
well."
"Ay, he would betray his best friend for a groat, and sell his own soul
for a rose noble!" said my mistress. "I dare say it was all a made up
plot to get out of the payment of your husband's legacy. It would be
like him."
Mr. Batie looked a little shocked at this sally. It was plain my
mistress was not greatly changed, after all.
"We are in evil case, and may have to fly any day," said Mr. Batie.
"Gardiner is great at court once more, and he hath—I know not why—a
venomous hatred to my wife."
I could well guess why, knowing how she used to laugh at him.
"But you shall have a shelter while we have one ourselves," continued
Mr. Batie, quickly, "and I will inquire about your husband, and
befriend him if possible, that you may be sure."
But, alas, it was not possible, nor could I ever succeed in hearing
from him again.
I remained in attendance upon my mistress, who was as kind and
considerate as any one could be. All the change in her was for the
better. The death of her husband and her two little sons, had brought
her to think more seriously than she used, and made real to her the
things which were unseen and eternal. We used to take sweet counsel
together over the Scriptures I read to her. (Already the English Bible
was a proscribed book, and the Prayer Book declared an abomination.) I
could see plainly that while she was ready, if she could, to flee from
persecution, as indeed she had Scripture warrant, she would, if need
were, die at the stake as bravely as Mistress Askew herself.
I had been with my mistress in her house at Barbican some two weeks.
The weather was very hot, and we began to hear of fevers among the
prisoners in the crowded jails, but I could not learn that there had
been any cases in Newgate.
One evening, however, John Symonds called me aside as I was passing
through the hall, and told me there was one to speak with me from the
prison, who had a token from my husband. There was a strange sound of
pity in his voice as I now remember, but I did not think of it at the
time. I followed him eagerly to a little room on the ground floor, and
there sat the turnkey's wife, whose child I had saved. She spoke not a
word, but with tears running down her rough face, she held out to me a
little book. Mechanically I took and opened it. It was my own little
Latin Psalter, which I had given to Walter at our sad parting in the
prison. On the fly leaf was traced with a trembling hand, "Farewell,
dear heart, to meet above."
"They have killed him then," said I, as calmly as though speaking of an
indifferent person.
"Nay, madam; 'twas the fever. He gave me that token for you, and I
promised to put it into your own hand."
"When?" I asked.
"Only to-day."
I heard no more, for sight and sense failed me, and when they carried
me to my room, they thought I had gone to join my husband.
I was like one turned to stone for a few days, unable to think, almost
to feel, and only saying to myself again and again, "My husband is
dead. My husband is dead."
I know not how long this state lasted, but it was Mistress Curtis who
roused me from it. She came to my room, and sitting down by my side,
she took my hand, saying in her crisp, kindly, imperative tone:
"Loveday, listen to me. Will you help to save your mistress from the
fate of your husband?"
The words penetrated to my benumbed brain, and found an answer there. I
turned my face inquiringly toward her. She repeated her question, with
a difference.
"Will you risk your life to save your mistress from the fate of your
husband?"
"Yes!" I answered, rousing myself all at once. "What is life to me?"
"A means whereby you may serve God and his church," answered Mistress
Curtis, solemnly. "Can you collect your wits and listen to me?"
I felt once more come over me that strange feeling of peace and
strength which had been given me before.
"I will do any thing for my mistress," I said.
"Then listen. You know Gardiner is our lady's implacable enemy. Already
he threatens her with a strict examination, which can have but one
end, for she will never deny her faith. Master Batie hath already gone
abroad, leaving us instructions what to do. This very night, if at all,
my lady must make her escape to meet her husband, at a little town in
the Dutchy of Cleves. You can be of the greatest use to us, as you can
speak both Dutch and Latin, and perhaps, French also—"
"Yes," I answered. "I can speak French well, and can make a shift to
express myself in Spanish, if need." (So I could, for having always a
fancy for learning languages, I had picked up a little Spanish from a
lady in Rotterdam.) "I see what you would have, and I am ready. Whom
does my mistress take in her company?"
"Why, our two selves and John Symonds. Then we may depend upon you, my
dear, faithful, afflicted child?"
"Yes," I answered. "I have no more place in these parts," and with that
I fell a-weeping, and my kind friend wept with me.
We could not indulge our tears very long, however. There was too much
to be done.
My lady professed to be ill at ease, and kept her chamber, and Mistress
Curtis threw out vague hints of the sweating sickness, and kept all the
maids at a distance.
All that day, I worked busily enough, packing my lady's most portable
jewels in the smallest compass, and curiously reminded of the time when
I prepared mine own for the flight to the old hall. I carried only
bare necessary clothes for myself, besides my Bible and Psalter, and a
little book of prayers, which had been Walter's.
There was some grand show going on, I forget what it was, but something
connected with the new queen's doings. Already the mass was being sung
every where. Gardiner and his companions were high in court favor, and
poor Archbishop Cranmer, to whose gentle intercessions with her father,
the queen had owed her life, was disgraced and confined. The Popish
party now held their heads high, ay, and the highest were those who
had made the greatest show of conforming in King Edward's days, and
been the most ready to truckle to the humors of King Henry. Such was
Gardiner himself, who made himself so conspicuous in putting down the
religious houses, and his bulldog, Bonner.
As I said, there was a great show, and all the servants had leave to go
and see it, save two or three whom we could trust. As soon as it was
dark and all the house deserted, we put on our mantles and mufflers,
and slipping out of the back entrance, hastened down to the river,
where John Symonds had a boat in waiting. It was a dark night, and
somewhat rough, which was all the better for our purpose.
Luckily we were all good sailors. We dropped down the river with the
tide, and the morning found us at Gravesend, whence we purposed to
embark. We staid there in great retirement and great anxiety for some
days, lodging with the wife of our vessel's master, a woman of great
goodness and charity, who gave us the best her house afforded. I don't
think my mistress minded roughing it in the least—not half as much as
Mistress Curtis did for her.
It was an anxious time, for though my mistress was well, she was just
in that state of health when one never knows what will happen next, and
as for any prudence in taking care of herself, it was not in her. She
was as pleased as a child with seeing a way of life so unlike what she
was used to. She was never tired of playing with the children, and must
needs take the broom in her hand to see what sweeping was like, and so
on, till Mistress Curtis lost patience and scolded her roundly, telling
her that she was risking all our lives as well as her own, and bringing
our kind hostess into danger.
She pouted a little, but her own sweet nature soon got the upper hand,
and she confessed that Curtis was right, and promised amendment.
As for myself, all plans were alike to me. I knew my dear Katherine was
safe in good hands. I had no ties—no, not even my husband's grave, for
no one knew where he was buried, and my only thought now was when I
should rejoin him, and meantime how I could best serve my dear mistress.
Well, the vessel came at last, and we embarked for Rotterdam, from
which place we were to make our way as quickly as might be to Saulin,
a little retired town in the Dutchy of Cleves, where Master Batie
had appointed to meet us. I do think I am a very Jonah on shipboard.
Never but once did I cross the seas without meeting a storm. We had a
tremendous one this time, and our master was obliged to put back and
take shelter for a day or two at Harwich.
Our quarters were wretched enough, especially as our hatches were
fastened down half the time. Mistress Curtis was sick in her berth
almost all the way, though she called herself a good sailor, and
old John Symonds was not much better, but my mistress was well and
cheerful, making nothing of all the inconveniences of our situation,
and waiting on herself when I had my hands full with poor Mistress
Curtis, who was sure she was going to die, and wept the next moment
because her lady's meal was served in a cracked yellow pudding basin,
without so much as a napkin. Never was a better woman, or one more
great in emergency; but she was lady in waiting to the backbone, and
ceremony and form had become as her life-blood. She felt a great deal
worse than the Duchess, who indeed did not care at all.
We reached Rotterdam at last, a dirty, weary, draggled set. I was glad
that, according to Master Batie's orders, we were to make no stay
there, but to push on at once to our destination. I dreaded seeing the
place where I had been so happy, and, above all, I could not endure
that any one should speak to me about Walter. 'Twas a morbid, unhealthy
state of mind, no doubt, and I got over it after a time.
We pushed on by boat as far as we could, and then by wagon and on
horseback, and sometimes on foot, till we reached the city of Cleves.
The very first person we saw in the twilight, as we came to the city
gate, was Master Batie himself. He had come that far to meet us, and
had provided lodgings for us in a decent little inn just without the
gate. No sooner did my mistress reach this place of rest and safety
than she broke down utterly, and went into a fit of the mother, which
frightened even Mistress Curtis. It was well I could speak Dutch, for
the mistress of the house was a Holland woman, and not a little scared
at the condition of her guest.
"Is your lady gone mad, think you?" she asked of me.
"Not so," I answered. "She is but tired and overwrought, and the joy
of seeing her husband unexpectedly was too much for her. You can see
yourself that she is in no fit state to travel. She will be better
directly."
"I hope so," said she, with a troubled face. "I fear lest she may
bring the priest down on us; they look so keenly after every case of
sickness—the vultures that they are. Alack, what have I said."
"The truth," said I, bitterly. "Vultures, and kites, and ravening
wolves, if you will."
The hostess looked relieved.
"One never knows to whom one is speaking in these days," said she; "but
I would the lady were quiet."
I made my way into the room, where Mistress Curtis was fussing over my
lady, and Master Batie was like one distracted, as men always are at
such times. I saw something was needed beside pity.
"Madam, listen to me," said I. "You are putting us all in peril by
giving way and crying out so. The hostess fears lest your screams
should bring us unwelcome visitors. Drink this."
She pulled herself up directly, and drank the little glass of strong
spirit and water I held to her lips. It was what we call schnapps in
Holland, and the flavor is detestable enough to bring a dead man to
life if he could but taste it.
"Horrible," said she, making a face like a child taking medicine.
"There, I will be good. Forgive me, dear Loveday. Every one is not so
strong as you are."
"There, now, you are quite yourself," said I, "and you will be better
still when you have had your supper. Shall I order it, Master Batie?"
"If you will," he answered, looking immensely relieved, for he could
not speak either Dutch or French, and his Latin was not of much use
here.
So I went out and took counsel with the landlady, who was a neat,
clever housewife from Middleburg. She was ready to run her feet off
when she found I had been there, and knew some of her friends, at least
by name. She got us the best her house afforded.
Mistress Curtis made a sad face at the soup, but she liked the bread
and the rich milk, and thick cream, and the golden butter, so sweet
and hard as I think no one but a Dutch woman can make it. My mistress
was quite herself again, laughing as she told her husband of all the
odd mischances of our voyage. But she was ever light-hearted in our
greatest straits.
"And now are we safe, I trust," said she. "I long to be at rest, even
if only for the sake of these faithful women and honest John Symonds."
"Nay, trouble not for me, madam; I shall do well enough any where,"
said old John, as she turned to him. "Only I marvel why these people
can not speak like Christians, so a man could understand them."
My lady laughed, while Master Batie said, in his grave way: "Nay, John,
there are many good Christians in the world who do not speak English.
As to our being in safety, I hope we are so at least for the present.
We will go to-morrow to Saulin, a small town, where I have hired a
house with its furniture, and where we may, I trust, find a refuge till
this tyranny be overpast. But it will behoove us to live quiet and
retired, and to be very prudent."
"Perhaps, then, it is as well for us that nobody but Loveday can speak
Dutch," observed my mistress. "As for me, I can read French well
enough, but my accent is incurably English."
Well, we removed to Saulin next day, and took up our abode in our own
hired house—not a spacious one by any means, but neat and comfortable.
It was an odd little town, once a place of some importance, but old and
decaying.
There were no English in the place but ourselves, and one other
family—that of a gentleman named Giggs, who had fled from England on
some political ground, and had lived in this place ever since. The wife
and daughter were well enough—sober, plodding women, much given to
fine spinning and embroidery—just the women who will sit stitching at
a counterpane or hanging, from year's end to year's end, with no more
change than from blue silk to red cloth, or from the history of King
Arthur to Moses in the bulrushes. Withal they were kindly souls, and
would even neglect their beloved tapestry to help some poor woman in
trouble.
But the husband I liked not at all. He was a busybody in other men's
matters—with a mighty conceit of his own knowledge of state craft, as
he called it—in short, just the man to be made a spy and a pump of, all
the time he was fancying himself as secret as the grave. Of course,
he was bound to find out all about us. He tried in vain to pump John
Symonds, who was always afflicted with deafness when it did not suit
him to hear, and whose tongue was not to be unlocked even by beer. Then
he tried Mr. Batie himself, but he might as well have tried to extract
a secret from the crypt of St. Peter's at Rome. At last he took himself
off, on some secret mission, he said, and we were glad to be rid of
him. But we were not done with him yet.
The time went on to November, and we were fallen into a very quiet,
orderly way of living, as, indeed, every thing was orderly where Mr.
Batie was. He was a wonderful grave, staid man, loving all sorts of
head-breaking, mathematical studies, and caring little or nothing for
the music and poetry which his wife loved. I never saw a man so slow to
take a joke, or one who enjoyed it more when he did understand it. But
he was a pleasant gentleman to live with. His temper was perfect, and
he was faithfulness itself.
If Mr. Batie promised to do a thing, 'twas as sure to be done as
the sun to rise, unless something made the fulfillment downright
impossible. He always did seem to me a little like a schoolmaster, he
was so fond of setting one right and giving little bits of information.
All the poetry and enthusiasm in him was bestowed on his religion. I
never saw one, not even my Walter, to whom the other world seemed at
all times so near, and when he read a story in the Bible and commented
thereon, he made you see the very place and people. He had been in the
Holy Land, where, I suppose, things have not changed a great deal since
our Lord's time, and when he told us of Bethlehem and of Nazareth, he
fairly carried us into the carpenter's shop and the stable.
'Twas he who first won me to talk of my husband, by telling me how he
had met him at Suffolk house. It was a great relief, once I brought my
mind to it, and his wise, gentle counsels and prayers did a great deal
toward dispelling the dull cloud which seemed to settle down upon me
after the immediate need for action was past. I found comfort once more
in devotion, and began to take up some of my old pursuits.
My dear lady liked me to read and sing to her, and she needed something
to divert her, for she was far from well. Mistress Giggs' youngest
daughter, Amy, had fallen into a rapid consumption—a waste, as we call
it in these parts. Her mother, though she loved the child tenderly, was
no great things of a nurse, and poor little Amy liked me about her. My
mistress, ever self-forgetful, would have me do what I could for the
child, and Mr. Batie often visited and prayed by her. The women were of
the Reformed persuasion. As for Mr. Giggs, his religion varied with the
company he kept.
It was now the end of November, and we were looking for my lady's trial
to come on any day. The nights were long and dark, and the ground was
covered with snow, but it was not very cold. Mr. Batie had been away
for a few days, and we were anxious for his return.
Mr. Giggs had come home and had been to see us that very afternoon to
tell us how he had been made much of at the court of the Prince Bishop
of Cleves; it would be hard to tell whether the man were more unfit
for a prince or a bishop. In his vanity, he let out perhaps more than
he meant, as he told us how intimate he had been with the bishop's
chief-councilor, a Dominican priest, and what fair promises had been
made him of places at court, and how he should be able to serve Mr.
Batie.
"What a popinjay the man is!" said Mistress Curtis, when he was gone.
"I hope he is no worse," said I. It had fallen to our lot to entertain
him as usual, my mistress being ill at ease, and having besides a great
dislike to him. "I hope he is not the pilot fish I have heard the
mariners tell of, which guides the shark to its prey."
"What can you mean?" asked Mistress Curtis.
Before I had time to answer, the door opened quickly, and Bessy Giggs
came in.
"Has Mr. Batie come home?" she asked, without any preface, and with
none of her usual shyness.
"Not yet?" answered Mistress Curtis.
"What is it, Bessy?" I asked. "What has happened? Is Amy worse?"
"Yes—no. It is not that!" she answered. "Oh, I would Mr. Batie were at
home."
"Here I am!" said Mr. Batie's calm voice, as he entered in his usual
quiet way. "What is it, Bessy?"
"I know not if it is any thing!" she answered. "But— My father has been
at court, in the hands of the bishop's confessor, and a man has come
back with him whose looks I like not. You know my father. He thinks he
is so secret, and a child can make him tell all he knows and more."
"Ay, I understand!" said Mr. Batie, composedly. "I had wind of this
before. Go home, my child, and give no hint of having been here. I know
you can be discreet."
Bessy went away looking greatly relieved, for she had unbounded faith
in Mr. Batie's wisdom.
"My life for hers!" I answered. "Bessy is not bright, but she is good
all through."
"Give me goodness before brightness, and faith before all things," said
Mr. Batie. (N. B. He would have stopped to make a moral if he had seen
a tiger just ready to spring on him.) "Curtis, how is your mistress?"
"Well as one can expect, sir, all things considered," answered Mistress
Curtis. "She went to her room, but I think it was but to avoid Mr.
Giggs."
"Ay, we must avoid him to purpose," said Mr. Batie. "The chattering
magpie hath brought the bishop's confessor down upon us. His Grace
being taken with a great zeal for the purity of religion in his
diocese, is determined that all who will not conform must suffer the
penalty, and all English fugitives are the special objects of his
wrath, out of compliment to our gracious queen's consort, Philip of
Spain, I presume."
"Philip of Spain!" I exclaimed. "Hath she really married King Philip?
Well, if the English bear that!"
"I begin to think the English will bear any thing, so they have beer
enow!" said Master Batie bitterly. "But we must waste no time talking
politics; we must make our escape to Wesel this very night."
"Impossible, sir!" exclaimed Mistress Curtis. "Think of my mistress and
her condition. How would she bear the shaking of a litter or a horse?"
"She will not have to bear them!" answered Mr. Batie, more curtly than
was his wont. "I dare not risk the hiring of either. We must set out as
soon as it is fairly dark, and make our way on foot to Wesel."
Mrs. Curtis looked at him as if she thought him mad. "On foot and
to-night!" she repeated. "My lady will perish in the snow."
"Better the snow and the sky than the rack and flame!" answered Mr.
Batie. "Loveday have you your wits about you?"
"Yes, sir!" I answered.
"Then listen, both of you. We must have our supper as usual, and keep
up our fire and lights. Then at eight o'clock when all is still, we
must steal out as quietly as possible by the back garden-gate and
make the best of our way to Wesel. The gatekeeper is my friend and
will allow us to go forth. I do not think our enemies will make any
move before morning, and by that time we shall be out of their reach.
Hasten and have all needful things ready, but make no bustle. Where is
Annette?"
"Gone to her sister's wedding, by good luck."
"So much the better, though you should not call it luck," said Mr.
Batie. I had much to do not to laugh. "I will myself prepare your
mistress. Ah, here she comes. My sweet life, I have heavy news for you."
My mistress took the news very coolly. Indeed, she was not half as much
excited as Mistress Curtis, and laughed at her fears that the walk
would hurt her.
"But shall we be safe in Wesel?"
"Yes, I think so. 'Tis one of the Hanse League towns, wholly
independent of his spiritual lordship, and the sturdy burghers like
him not well enough to do him a pleasure by giving a fugitive to his
clutches. I would we had gone there at first."
"You acted for the best, my love!" said my mistress. "Come, Curtis,
don't stand there like the figure of woe in the pageant, but bestir
yourself to get things together for our march. We are all in God's
hands, and let Him do what He will it will be best."
Mr. Batie forgot himself for once. He caught his wife in his arms,
kissing her, weeping over her, and calling her his suffering angel,
his poor hunted darling. He was all himself in a moment, and looked a
little ashamed, but I liked him all the better.
Well, Mistress Curtis set herself to pack up what was most needed,
and I to getting supper, for as I said our only maid was away at some
family festival. I took occasion to be seen going in and out, about
the supper. I even made an errand to a neighboring shop where we often
bought provisions, and finding some good butter, I bought enough to
last a week.
John Symonds was to stay behind till early morning and then join us.
All the time I was busy I kept saying to myself. "Wesel, Wesel, what do
I know about Wesel?" I don't think my head had ever been quite right
since my great shock, and my memory played me sad tricks.
We sat down to supper for the last time in our snug little house.
Every body there closes shutters at dusk, which was lucky for us.
Mistress Curtis's eyes were red with weeping, but my mistress was calm
and cheerful as a summer morning; and she took her supper with a good
appetite. Mr. Batie looked a man who was holding himself with all his
force, and as for me, I can only say that all my strength was bent to
the determination of serving my mistress and saving her if possible.
We had prayers after supper, and in all my life I never heard any one
pray like Mr. Batie. He put new life and courage into us all, and into
himself, too, for when he rose his face had lost its set, hard look,
and was calm and pleasant as ever.
When the little Dutch time-piece in the corner struck eight we prepared
to be gone. The night was as black as any night can be when there is
snow on the ground, which was all the better for us, of course. We went
down the little garden and out at the back gate. The keeper of the
town-gate let us pass without a question, wishing us God speed, and
then began our trial.
Oh, what a miserable walk that was. The ground was only half-frozen,
and the road was rough and miry, for we dared not take the
well-traveled highway. A half-melted snow was falling, which blew in
our faces, and clung to our garments. Mr. Batie went first, with his
wife leaning on him, and Mistress Curtis and I followed, carrying each
a bundle, and supporting each other as best we could. The dear woman
was growing old and not so strong as she had been.
"To think of the Duchess of Suffolk in such a plight," she sighed.
"Wandering in the snow like a gipsy wife. What would the Duke say to
see her creeping along in this dark night with no one to lean on but
Mr. Batie?"
I could hardly help laughing.
"And this lonely road, too!" she continued. "Heaven send, we meet no
foot-pads!"
"Heaven send, we meet nothing worse," I thought, for our road skirted a
bit of the prince bishop's forest, and I knew the wolves were very bold
at times. I listened with all my ears, and almost thought I heard their
long-drawn howls in the depths of the wood, but I believe, after all,
it was only the wind among the trees.
My mistress never made a complaint, and looked back from time to time
to say a word of encouragement. It was but four miles, but it seemed
like a dozen leagues. We met not a single soul on the road, and when
we reached the city gate, the lights were all out in the town, though
it was not midnight. Mr. Batie knocked at a little side gate, and said
a few words in Latin. The wicket was opened, and we found ourselves
within the friendly walls of the free Hanse town. A few steps more
brought us to a great old church with a deep porch, wherein were wide
benches. The sky had now cleared, and the waning moon showed us every
thing clearly. My mistress had not said a word for half an hour, but
now she spoke.
"Let us stop here, my dearest love; I fear I can not walk a step
further."
There was mute suffering in her voice, and I guessed in a minute what
was coming, but I don't believe it ever came into Mr. Batie's head. Men
are so stupid, with all their learning.
"It is so cold!" said he, hesitating. "Had you not better—"
"No, no, let her rest!" said I. And seeing he did not yet understand, I
whispered something in his ear, and added: "Hasten and find us shelter
as quickly as you can."
It was not so easily done. All the houses were closed, even the inns,
and he could make nobody hear. Indeed, a German landlord, once he
hath closed his house for the night, will not open to a prince of the
blood. He hurried from street to street, growing fairly distracted with
anxiety. At last he came across a knot of students, who were disputing
violently in Latin. He appealed to them at once.
"For the love of Heaven and your own mothers, gentlemen, tell me where
I can find help for a lady in extremity!"
They looked at each other, and were inclined to make a joke of the
matter at first, but seeing his distress to be real, the kind-hearted
lads consulted together.
"There is a pastor near by who hath been in England I know," said one;
"I will guide you to his house, sir, and no doubt you will find the
help you need for your poor lady."
Meantime, Mistress Curtis and I had pulled off our cloaks and made the
best couch we could for our suffering lady, who, while her voice was
sharpened by the mortal anguish of a woman's supreme trial, still spoke
words of cheer and comfort. And there, on that dark November night,
in the cold church porch, was born, he who is now one of the queen's
bravest and best soldiers and servants, Peregrine, Lord Willowby.
All was over, and the babe wrapped in my flannel petticoat, roaring
for dear life, when Mr. Batie came back with a man in a pastor's
dress, and two others, bearing a litter of some sort. As the light he
held flashed on the pastor's face, I knew I had seen him before, but
where I could not tell. In a little time, my mistress was put to bed
in a comfortable, clean room. A kind, pleasant, and motherly woman
was bustling about, providing us with dry clothes and hot soup; and
her pretty married daughter was dressing the babe in some of her own
child's clothes, for the bundle of baby linen Mistress Curtis brought,
had been somehow lost on the way.
"You take too much trouble for us, dear madam," said I, as the good,
kind woman brought in some new delicacy to tempt us.
"Nay, my dear, that I can never do," said she, showing her beautiful
teeth in a smile. "My husband was once saved from death by starvation
in the streets of London, by some kind English ladies. Oh, I would do
any thing for the English!"
"Now I know," I exclaimed; "your husband is that same Walloon pastor
whom my mistress saved from the hands of the boatmen on the river. I
thought I had seen him before."
If the good people had been hospitable before, judge what they were
now. The best of every thing was not good enough for us. The pastor
recognized me at once, and told his family how I had been the first to
understand him, and taken his part, and how my mistress had helped him,
not only with food and money, but with kind words and true sympathy.
At last, Mr. Batie begged that there might be no more talking, and we
finally settled for the night.
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